


aligning the stars.

by lonelyheartsclub_com



Series: the romcom aus! [1]
Category: Murder Most Unladylike Series - Robin Stevens
Genre: F/F, M/M, romcom fic timeeeeeee
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:15:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28758696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonelyheartsclub_com/pseuds/lonelyheartsclub_com
Summary: bertie wells has just broken up with his boyfriend of seven years. with his crappy luck, he somehow manages to get a kiss from a stranger on the street and is then left alone in the february cold. oh, if only he knew.
Relationships: Alfred Cheng & Harold Mukherjee & Amanda Price & Henrietta Trilling & Bertie Wells, Amanda Price/Henrietta Trilling, Bertie Wells/Stephen Bampton (past), Harold Mukherjee/Bertie Wells
Series: the romcom aus! [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108448
Kudos: 12





	1. the one where everything reminded bertie of stephen

**Author's Note:**

> tw // abuse

Bertie hugged his knees to his chest. He was sitting at the bus stop, waiting for Amanda and Alfred to pick him up. He hated being alone, and he hated being alone especially when it was nearly Valentine’s Day. Because if he closed his eyes, he’d think about Stephen and everything he’d do to him in the name of romance. He shook his head, and he could hear someone shout, “Get in, Wells!” he looked up to see Alfred Cheng, cigarette in hand, Amanda Price on the wheel and grins on both of their faces. 

Bertie wanted to smile back, but he couldn’t bring himself to. 

He supposed it was good he and Stephen had broken up, seeing as Stephen was abusive and didn’t let him have any freedom. But he couldn’t help but miss the kind Stephen, the one that would hug him from behind, the one that would kiss his hands, the one that would count all the freckles on his face-

Stephen was abusive, end of story. 

It doesn’t matter what he was like when he was kind, because he’d hit Bertie. He’d force himself on Bertie, he’d force Bertie to mask, when in reality, he should’ve done nothing of the sort. 

But they weren’t together anymore.

The final argument was gory. Stephen accused Bertie of cheating, and Bertie finally stood up for himself instead of making himself look a fool. He stormed out on Stephen after getting all his stuff, and he’d shouted, “I’m not going to bother to come back, so go fuck yourself!” 

Stephen would probably find his way back to Bertie, but he’d told Amanda and Alfred everything, from the abuse to the argument, and they would probably rather die than let him go back to Stephen. He jumped in the car, and Amanda stepped on it. She had her Paradise CD blasting at the top volume, and Alfred was singing along to Body Electric rather well, actually. 

Amanda laughed. “Shut up, Alfred. Bertie, sweetheart, you feelin’ any better?” she asked, her Welsh lilt slipping out slightly. 

He nodded and forced a smile. He was good at those. “Course. Also, are we picking up Henry by any chance? This isn’t the way to you lot’s flat.”

Amanda grinned. “It’s almost Valentine’s! She’s taking me out later, and we have something planned when we get home.”

Alfred looked back at Bertie and made a rather...suggestive scissoring motion with his hands, and Amanda gave him a stern glare. “Behave.”

When Henry sat down next to Bertie, she smiled at him, her dimples standing out, her dark skin glistening and her white teeth shining. She ran a hand through her curly, dark hair. She was in a tank top and some flared jeans. Bertie had always loved her sense of style, because it reminded him of the ‘90s. 

“Alright, Bertie? Heard you finally broke it off with that bastard-” she coughed and re-calibrated. 

Bertie grinned as she mumbled out an apology. “It’s fine, Henry. He was a bastard.” he mumbled, tugging at his blazer sleeve to look at the bruises that had bloomed all over his arms since Stephen had hit him there. Henry looked over, and Bertie knew she had seen the bruises. 

“He hit you?” she whispered, low enough so Alfred and Amanda couldn’t hear. 

Bertie nodded, and he grinned. “Our relationship was basically like Ultraviolence by Lana.”

She frowned, deeply. “Want a hug?” Bertie nodded, tears clouding his view. He leaned in and Henry wrapped an arm around Bertie’s broad shoulders. He turned his head so that his tears were falling onto Henry’s jersey. 

“Sorry, Henry.”

“It’s fine, Bertie.” she whispered.

Alfred and Amanda’s flat was basically like home to Bertie. He had a closet full of clothes there, so if Stephen ever got too bad, he’d slip out the window and run to theirs, his clothes bloody, his lips swollen and bruises all over him. 

They’d bandage him up and beg for him to break it off, and he’d refuse, and he’d turn up on their doorstep 7 or so hours later, on the verge of death. 

Okay, maybe that last bit was a little specific. 

He threw his suitcase and flopped down onto the bed, and he cried. He clung to the pillow like he used to cling to Stephen, and he cried his eyes out, and he cried and he cried. Until his throat was raw, and his scalp hurt from how much he pulled at his hair. Amanda walked in, and she was in Henry’s basketball jersey and a pair of shorts, and it made him think of how he used to wear Stephen’s shirts, but he’d hate them at the same time because they smelled like him, like lavender and dirt. 

“Bertie,  _ fy annwyl _ , come and eat something.” she offered, sitting down beside him. He was watching The Queen’s Gambit for the thousandth time because he thought Townes was fit. Oh, and because Anya Taylor Joy was a pretty good actress. She pulled off any hair colour, it was like magic. 

“Nah, Manda, I’m okay. I’ll just go grab some doughnuts or something.” she frowned, and he could tell that she was about to cuss him out in Welsh. 

“Bertie, we made pizza.” Amanda said, trying to coax him.

“Alfred’s a shitty cook.” he retaliated. 

“Correction, _ I _ made pizza. Alfred and Henry sang along to Summer Bummer and In My Feelings whilst I swatted at them and told them to shut the fuck up.”

“Who said I like your cooking?” Bertie asked, leaning on his hands. 

“Me. Now, get up and get your ass into the kitchen before I stab you to death.” Amanda warned jokingly, but Bertie still froze up. 

She stood at the doorway. “Well?” Bertie got up and walked out without another word, tears blurring his vision. 

“Bertie? Talk to me. What was it that I said?” she said, turning around. 

“It’s just, Stephen would threaten…” he trailed off, all the times Stephen threatened to shoot him, or stab him, or slit his throat coming back in anguish. 

“Oh,  _ fy annwyl _ , I’m sorry.” Amanda leaned up to kiss him on the forehead. “I won’t let anything happen to you. If he comes anywhere near you, we’ll get a restraining order,”

Bertie nodded, and he walked through to see Alfred and Henry fighting over what song to play. 

“Nah, Henry, this is my flat! We’re playing See You Again.”

“And I said that Amanda’s my girlfriend and she pays the damn rent, so we should listen to Where This Flower Blooms! It’s got Frank Ocean on the track, what could go wrong?”

Amanda turned up the vinyl of Flower Boy, the fluorescent yellow shining in the light. “We can listen to both songs. You two are absolute idiots.”

Bertie grinned. “Remind me why you two were fighting over songs that come right after each other again?”

Alfred shoved Bertie. 

Amanda held up her glass and proposed a toast. “To Bertie getting away from Stephen!”

They all clinked their drinks. The minute Bertie’s head hit the pillow, he passed out, the events of the day fading away. 

**_BEEP. BEEP, BEEP._ **

Bertie sat up, and he threw the alarm across the room to make it stop. The awful noise made it feel like his ears were about to start bleeding, and it also made him want to cry, so that was pleasant. 

He could hear Henry and Amanda through the wall, laughing and probably dancing to a song Bertie couldn’t place. He could also hear Alfred, who was talking to himself.

“Oh, what’s that, sweetheart?” Did Alfred have someone round last night? “Oh, yes, it’s the sound of me being utterly alone whilst my friends get laid!”

Bertie stifled back a laugh. “Don’t worry, Alfred. I’m alone too.” he said through the wall, hearing a dry laugh in response. 

The day was utterly uninteresting. Bertie rewatched 13 Going On 30, The Breakfast Club and Heathers at least thrice in turn.

It was 5, and for some reason he was craving doughnuts. Alfred and Amanda were both out, Amanda with Henry, and Alfred in search of a hookup. With his looks and dry charm, it wouldn’t take him 5 seconds. 

He paused his rewatch of AHS: Coven and put on a tank top and some baggy jeans that were cuffed. Even though it was February and it was snowing, Bertie liked to look fashionable. 

He put on his white Doc Martens and stepped outside. He immediately regretted his whole vendetta of looking good and wanted to run back inside, but he was hungry, he couldn’t cook and Amanda wasn’t there.

So he sucked it up. 

Bertie crossed the familiar streets, secretly hoping a car would hit him. London looked beautiful around this time, because it snowed heavily and the snow seemed untouched. 

But, romance was everywhere. 

The hearts on every street corner, the canoodling couples that were probably going to fight as soon as they got home, the picture perfect snow angels. Bertie wanted to close his eyes and just never open them again. Whatever.

He opened the door and stepped inside the store. He paid the cashier and bumped into someone. “Watch where you’re going.”

“Now, now, Bertie. Is that any way to talk to your ex?” he looked up to see Stephen standing there. He ran past him, not having the time to deal with Stephen. 

There, he bumped into another person, who was in fact not Stephen. He had dark brown skin and dark eyes, and jet black hair. He was panting hard, as if he’d been running. 

“Could I kiss you? I need- I need to hide from someone.”

“Um…” Bertie froze for a second to think. “Sure.” He leaned in, and so did the mystery stranger, and it seemed a little, well, cheesy. He’d broken up with Stephen about 2 days ago, and here was this handsome stranger, asking to kiss him. 

“Jesus, you’re a good kisser.” the stranger said. 

“Who were you hiding from? Or were you really just looking for someone to kiss? I wouldn’t mind either way.”

“You...don’t recognise me?” he asked. Was Bertie supposed to? Was he like, some international actor or some shit?

“Uh, no, I can’t say I do.”

He grinned. “Well, I’m Harold Mukherjee.”

“Bertie Wells. Or, Albert Wells if you want to be fancy.”

Harold ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe you actually agreed to kiss a random stranger.”

“Was this some kind of prank?”

“Nope. I needed to hide from, uh, people.”

“Are you a member of the mafia?” Bertie asked, trying to be upfront. Harold stared at him. 

“Nope, but I am quite well known. It was the paparazzi that was chasing me.”

Bertie cocked an eyebrow. “Sure, Jan. Who were you really running from?”

“I already told you!” Harold said. “I don’t mean to sound big-headed, but search me up on Google in the morning. You’ll recognize me then.”

Bertie grinned. “Alright then, Mukherjee. Well, I ought to get home now.”

He frowned, and he looked like a puppy that had been kicked. “Leaving so soon? Don’t you want to get to know me?”

“Yes and no,” Bertie said, playing hard to get. He could tell that Harold was interested in him. “I mean, you did randomly come up to me and kiss me on the streets, so I am curious. But it’s cold and I’m tired of seeing all this romance bullshit everywhere, so no.”

He grinned again, and he nodded. He handed Bertie a slip of paper with his number on it. “Call me, Bertie Wells. “ And then the strangest thing happens. A limo rolls round, and he steps into it, winks and then the door closes, and then he becomes nothing but the taste of brandy on Bertie’s lips that wasn’t there before. 


	2. the one where bertie realises he kissed an international film star

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bertie's not really having a good time. i mean, he did realise that he kissed an international film star.

Waking up, as per usual, is the worst feeling. Bertie trudged into the kitchen to see Amanda and Henry, hugging tightly, and Amanda in tears. “I’m just so damn worried about him, Etta. What if he does something to himself and-”

Bertie cleared his throat. “Are you guys talking about me, by any chance? If so, don’t worry about me. If I were to kill myself, I’d make a shit ton of jokes about it before doing it. You know, for the bants.”

Amanda sighed. “Bertie, _matok_ , that isn’t funny.” Amanda was Jewish, and she spoke Hebrew as well as Welsh and Portuguese. She’d usually alternate between the three languages concerning terms of endearment. She tugged at the sleeves of her light blue jumper, which was paired with a tennis skirt and a button up shirt underneath. 

Henry wrapped an arm around Amanda’s slight shoulders. She was wearing a baggy t-shirt that went down to her mid-thigh with an elaborate pattern on it along with baggy jeans. She was wearing Doc Martens as well, which made Bertie smile. Sometimes, he’d call Henry and they’d order Doc Martens whilst laughing at the hideous light green ones. It wasn’t his fault the green ones were literally a hate crime to his eyes!

“Sorry, Manda.” Alfred walked in, through the front door. His straight black hair was messy, and he had the sleaziest smile on his face. He was also wearing a jumper Bertie had never seen on him before. 

“Morning, cunts,” he muttered. “If you need me, I’ll be asleep.” Amanda shoved him. 

“Where were you? I was worried sick, Alfred Cheng! If you dare pull anything like that again-”

“Manda, I think you know where I was. I told you I’d be out all night, did I not?” He was holding back a smile.

Henry laughed, but Amanda turned around and fixed her with an intense glare. 

“Alfred Cheng, you-” she started cussing him out in Hebrew, and then Welsh, and then Hebrew again, and then started on a rant in Portuguese. 

“Done?”

She stamped on his foot, hard. “Yes.” He looked back at Bertie and winked before shutting the door to his room. 

“Jesus, Manda.” Henry guffawed. She glared at her girlfriend before muttering something in Hebrew. She put a plate with a pile of french toast in the middle of the table and she glared at Bertie. 

“Eat. You haven’t eaten breakfast in ages.” She nudged the plate towards him. Amanda could be strict when she wanted to. 

“I-”

“If you dare say, “I’m good,” or, “Nah,” I will shove the food down your throat. Now eat.”

Bertie picked up the first slice and ate. By the time he had managed to escape Amanda and turn on the TV, he was still thinking about that mystery man, his Londoner accent and his grin. And the kiss. 

He turned on the TV, to see a man with gold rimmed glasses, brown skin, dark eyes and black hair. 

_“But I don’t see why not!”_ he snapped, his accent jarringly familiar. Amanda and Alfred both sat themselves down next to Bertie, who was gaping at the TV. 

The man he kissed yesterday _was_ an actor. Amanda tapped him on the shoulder. “Bertie, are you that in love with Harold Mukherjee? I mean, I know he’s hot, but-”

“That’s the guy I kissed last night."

Alfred was the first to laugh. “Oh, Bertie, that’s a good one. What’s next, you and his brother George play checkers together?”

“No, I’m serious. He was running from paparazzi, and asked if he could kiss me to obscure his face-”

“Bertie, sweetheart-” Amanda started. 

“He gave me his number.” Bertie said, pulling out a piece of paper. Amanda marvelled at it, whilst Alfred muttered something in Cantonese. 

“Are you crazy? Call him!” Amanda shouted.

“Are you serious? Who’s to say he’d pick up?” Bertie retaliated. He had really sat awake all night, wondering whether he should text Harold or not.

“Well, he did kiss you, didn’t he?” Alfred butted in, cocking an eyebrow. 

“Yeah, to hide from paparazzi.” He shot back. 

Amanda snatched the paper out of his hand, picked up the house phone and dialed the number. There came a, “Hello? Who is this?” Bertie snatched the phone out of her hands. 

“Harold, hey!”

“Well, well, well, if it isn’t Bertie Wells!” He could almost hear the grin through the phone. Amanda and Alfred stared at each other. 

“Or Albert Wells, if you want to be fancy.” Harold laughed, and Bertie almost died right there. 

“Hey, I have to go in a few minutes, but why don’t you swing by a gala I’m holding later?”

“Uh…”

“No pressure, of course! I’ll find you somehow, even if you don’t come.”

Bertie laughed. “I’ll see you later, Bertie.” And then the dial tone clicked, and Bertie felt...something. He didn’t know what, but it felt like a gaping hole of insecurity.

Amanda and Alfred both walked up to him and stood there, glaring at him. “What?”

Alfred turned to Amanda. “Do you say it, or do I?”

“I’ll do it.” She turned to Bertie, all stern. “You’re going to that damn gala, Albert Thomas Wells.” 

Damn, the full name was used. 

“No! He most likely doesn’t want me there-”

“Boy, if you don’t shut your damn mouth. He invited you! Personally! You’re going to the fucking gala.” Alfred chided, sterner than Bertie had ever heard him before. 

Bertie frowned. “You guys-”

Amanda glared at him, and he stopped talking. 

“Come on. We’re finding you a passable outfit to wear.” Alfred says, dragging him into his room.

“What’s wrong with the way I dress?” Both Alfred and Amanda turned to face him for a moment. 

“Everything, _fy annwyl_. Everything.” Bertie huffed.

“You need to look…” Alfred trailed off, digging through his closet. 

“Cool?” Bertie suggested.

“I was going to say ‘not like you live in a Primark dressing room’ but cool works too.” Alfred said, shoving him into the closet with a suit in his hands. 

“This look doesn’t work.” Bertie announced, walking out of the closet after he’d put the suit on. Amanda looked disgusted. Alfred was very clearly judging him. Henry was sat back sipping her Pipeline Punch, her eyes taking in the mess that was Bertie’s current outfit. 

“You look like an English professor.” Amanda muttered.

“When does he not?” Henry grinned and shoved Alfred jokingly. 

“Wearing that, you look too much like the guy you’re trying to impress.”

Bertie went red. “Who said that I’m-”

Henry grinned. “Honey, please. If you really did kiss Harold, then I’m sure you’ll be trying your hardest to impress him so he doesn’t move on to the wide range of suitors he may already have and forget about you.”

Bertie went silent. 

Bertie came out in a frilly blue suit with a pink undershirt. Amanda gagged. 

“You look like fucking Harry Styles.” Alfred said, breaking the silence. 

“Is that a bad thing?”

“For you? Yes.”

"Oi, you lot know that scene in High School Musical 3 where Troy and the others are trying on suits and Troy goes, "too tight, it makes me look weird."? Bertie, that's you right now." Bertie simply glared as Henry and Amanda sung A Night To Remember.

“It looks like the 70s crawled up and died in your closet, Alfred.” Amanda said through tears of laughter. Henry was laughing with her, and Amanda was red in the face. 

“Gonna walk out in a skin tight suit next?” Henry teased. Bertie frowned. 

“It’s not my fault that vintage clothes look better on me!” Alfred exclaimed in defence. 

“Alfred, do you own a skin tight suit?” Bertie asked, looking him in the eyes. 

“No. I own two.” he muttered, looking away from the others. Amanda had started crying, and she was wiping away at her tears. 

“I’m going to ignore that, for both of our sakes.” Bertie said, walking back into Alfred’s closet. He dug through until he found a warm grey suit paired with a red tie that had a waistcoat too. 

“Well?” Bertie asked, walking out. 

There was a whistle and a cheer from Alfred. Henry simply shook her head, narrowing her brown eyes at Bertie. 

“It’ll have to do, because Alfred has a shitty sense of fashion.” Bertie hummed in agreement. 

“And you can talk, Trilling?”

“Yes! I did A - Levels in fashion, so I’ll thank you to shut it!”

“Well, what grades did you get?” Alfred asked, still not convinced. 

“A - star. Or as they say now, nines.” Alfred rolled his eyes, but he said nothing. 

“Bertie, we’re coming with you.” Amanda added. Bertie’s eyes widened and he started shaking his head. 

“No! You lot are going to make me look like an idiot!”

“Sorry to break it to you, _matok_ , but you already look pretty stupid.” Amanda said, putting a hand on Bertie’s shoulder. 

He frowned. 

“Fine, whatever.” Bertie pulled out his phone, and wrote a message to Harold saying, “ _hey, could you tell me where the gala is? gotta know if there’s parking space :D_ _”_ and his thumb hovered over the “SEND” button. 

Bertie sent the message on accident, because Amanda startled him and he pressed the send button accidentally. 

“Shit! Wait, no-”

He’d already seen the message. And he was _typing_. 

Bertie swallowed, sighed, and he wanted to be dead. Harold wrote back the address and, “ _can’t wait to see you there ;) you’ve got a ticket, right?_ ”

Shit. 

What ticket? There was a ticket required to get into the gala? Why the fuck hadn’t Harold told him that?

“ _course i have!! would be really stupid if i didn’t lmao"_

Well, things were looking really stupid right now, if that was the case. 

“ _hjsjshdksjdks was just checking! i could always get you one if you didn’t have one!! /lh_ ” If it weren’t for that tone indicator, he would’ve refused to go to the gala out of fear that Harold wanted him dead in a ditch. 

“ _yeah, see you in an hour,”_ Bertie replied. 

_“i’ll be anticipating it,”_ Harold wrote back. 

Bertie’s heart fluttered. It seemed really stupid, but even though he’d only known Harold for a day (well, less than 24 hours, actually) it felt like they had known each other forever. He swallowed down the feeling, because this wasn’t a romcom. Harold would forget all about him eventually, and they would go their separate ways. 

“Um,” Bertie started. “We have a bit of an issue. You need tickets to enter the gala.”

Alfred simply stared. “Did you not think to mention that before?”

“I didn’t know!”

Alfred gritted his teeth. 

“Well, unless God magically drops those tickets in your lap, we’re not going anywhere. Why don’t you just tell Harold we don’t have tickets?”

“I may or may not have said we had tickets-”

“Are you kidding me? You’re a lost cause, Bertie Wells.” Bertie could tell Alfred meant no harm by it, but again, Stephen said that stuff. He called Bertie slurs and said he was a lost cause and that he wouldn’t get anywhere in life.

“I’m sorry! I’m not telling Harold I lied, so we’re gonna have to find another way to get those tickets.” Alfred ran his hands through his straight black hair, narrowing his eyes at Bertie.

Amanda waltzed through the door in a red velveteen dress with elegant folds. She looked panicked. “I may or may not have run into Bampton.”

Bertie sighed. 

“He said he’s going to the gala, so, uh, Houston, we have a problem!”


	3. the one where bertie stole from his ex

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bertie wells is in a load of trouble. his idea? to thieve his way out of it.

Alfred looked over at Bertie, and Bertie looked over at him. “You’re thinking what I’m thinking, aren’t you?” Bertie asked.

“We steal his tickets.” Alfred had that mischievous grin on his face.

“Wait, go back a few pages. Tickets?” Amanda said, her face a mask of confusion.

“Bertie can tell you all about that! In the meantime, I have tickets to steal.” He saluted and walked out. 

“Oi, wait up!”

After Bertie had filled Amanda in, (she was extremely disappointed and used it as one of her teaching moments as to why lying is never helpful) they were on their way to Stephen’s house to steal his tickets. 

Now, Bertie usually didn’t condone stealing, but if it was from Stephen, it was most definitely for a good cause. 

He knocked on the door, and he knew he wasn’t ready to face Stephen again. The door swung open and there he stood, a smug grin on his freckled, pale face. He expected Bertie to gravitate back to him like always. 

“Alright, Bertie? Thought you weren’t bothering to come back.” he commented snidely, grinning.

“I…” Bertie wracked his brain for something to say. “Lied. I lied. I love you, Stephen, and I always have. You’re the person I want to spend the rest of my life with.” Bertie lied through his teeth. 

“And what makes you think I should forgive you?” Stephen’s green eyes glinted with malice.

Behind him, he could see Henry open a window and slide into the house smoothly, whilst Amanda and Alfred cheered her on. Quietly, of course.

“I don’t. But I would make it up to you. After begging, of course.” Stephen grinned, and Bertie felt sick. 

“Good to see that you’ve learned something, you pathetic-.” Stephen stopped himself, and Bertie looked down at the floor, and he was silent. So was Stephen. 

Then there was a thud, and yelp, and Henry emerged with 4 tickets and a smug grin on her pretty face. 

Stephen turned, because he had heard something. Henry hid in the bushes. Well, really, she threw herself into them, but all’s well that ends well. 

He narrowed his eyes, and behind him, Henry, Amanda and Alfred all flashed a thumbs up.

“Stephen?”

“Yes, Bertie?”

“I never expected you to be so damn gullible.” And Bertie smiles, and runs as fast as his long legs will carry him, away from Stephen. 

He hightailed it to the car and got in, sitting down whilst his heart was still racing. He could feel the tears leaking out of his eyes and he could hear the sound of Alfred asking him if he was okay, but it all felt and sounded distorted.

Bertie hadn’t been ready to face Stephen again. Yet he lied and said he was. He could feel Alfred wrapping a friendly arm around his shoulder and handing him a ticket.

Then the world unpaused itself. 

“Bertie, don’t scare me. Are you okay?” Alfred said, waving a hand in front of Bertie’s face. Bertie says nothing. Just stares into Alfred’s bottomless eyes, and lets tears fall down his cheeks. 

“Oh, Bertie.” he muttered, and he pulled Bertie into a hug, one that he so very desperately needed and deserved. Bertie let the tears fall, and he decided not to say anything. Alfred let him cry it out, and he couldn’t have been more grateful for Alfred Cheng in that one moment. 

***

When they arrive, the sky’s gone a moat brown, and the wind is whipping Bertie’s blonde curls. He feels slightly better. Amanda throws an arm around his shoulders and grins, nudging him. 

“Feel any better,  _ matok _ ? You get to see Harold again.” Bertie blushes. He’d only ever met Harold once, but he felt like seeing him again, laying eyes on him and smiling at him whilst Harold smiled back breathtakingly, was the only thing that would make him feel better. 

Bertie looked around when they had gotten in. Harold was nowhere to be seen. Someone immediately shoved past him, and Bertie’s shoulder hurt quite a bit. Amanda and Henry had left Bertie’s side soon enough to go to the bar, and Alfred had started flirting with a pair of people who looked like they didn't belong in such a prestigious event because of how defining their features were. 

Bertie picked up a drink, and headed onto the dance floor to look for Harold. He found him eventually, but he realised that there was no point. He was ready to go ask Alfred if they could leave, and apologise for dragging them out of the house, but his eyes landed on a spiral staircase that most likely led up to a rooftop. He slipped away. 

Bertie’s suspicions appeared to be right, because there was a roof overlooking all of their quaint town, and it made Bertie feel like he was close enough to touch the stars. He looked over the edge, and immediately stepped back, for fear of his thoughts telling him to jump. He stepped back, back, and he hit something. 

_ Someone. _

He looked into the person’s eyes, and they were deep, and dark. They smelled like brandy and...the Yankee Candle shop that Bertie had once spent three hours in. 

“Bertie? I saw you run up here. Are you alright?” It wasn’t Amanda, or Henry, or Alfred. He recognised the slight Londoner lilt.

It was Harold. 

“You’re a famous movie star? Why didn’t you tell me?” Bertie muttered, as Harold sat on the roof’s edge with a bottle of chardonnay that was most likely more expensive than his entire existence. 

“Well, sorry, love, but I did expect you to know.” Harold defended himself.

Bertie flushed. Harold had called him love. 

“Well, well, well, an honourable and a film star, standing on the roof of a prestigious gala.” Bertie piped up, cutting through the silence that was starting to ring in his ears.

“You’re an honourable?” Harold asked, turning to face Bertie in disbelief.

“Yep. Does the name Albert Wells ring a bell?” Bertie asked, leaning on his hands. 

“No, but then again, my name didn’t ring a bell for you.” Harold grinned.

“I’ll have you know I’m distantly related to the queen.” Bertie shot back.

“Ah, since you are related to her, d’you know what happens when she dies? Do schools really get closed for two weeks?” Harold pushed his spectacles further up the bridge of his nose. Bertie’s eyes widened.

“You absolute arsehole! I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that because you have a pretty face.”

Harold grinned, and he regarded Bertie with an air of confidence that made him want to faint.

“I have a pretty face?” Harold asked.

“You and I both know that, Harold. Don’t let it go to your head, sweetheart.” Bertie snorted. 

Harold winked. “Hm, I think I will, thank you very much.” he teased. 

He patted the spot on the roof’s edge next to him, and Bertie sat next to him. He handed the bottle to Bertie, who gave him an incredulous look. 

“If we get drunk and fall, we’re going to go  _ splat  _ on the pavement. Thank you for the offer though, Mukherjee.”

“You think I’d ever let you fall?” Harold said, taking another swig. Bertie said nothing, but did take the bottle from Harold. He could hear Alfred’s taunting voice in his head and remembered that he and Harold were indirectly kissing every time they passed the bottle back and forth. 

“I suppose you have a point. But what tells you that I wouldn’t let you fall?” Bertie challenged. Harold furrowed his brow in thought and ran a hand through hair. 

_ He’s beautiful,  _ Bertie thought before he could stop himself. 

“You don’t seem the type, Wells. And I just don’t think you’d let someone as handsome as me fall to my death, love, if I’m being frankly honest.”

Bertie’s eyes widened and he went red. He tried to say something, but the words came out like tangled wires in his mind. He stuttered for a solid minute. 

“So what if you’re right?” Bertie hesitantly said, looking up at Harold. 

“Well, it’s what I’d expect. I’m never wrong.” he responded teasingly, causing Bertie to feel like his face was on fire. 

Bertie jokingly said, “Well, I’m sorry for assuming you’d be anything other than right, Harold.” he shrugged in response, taking another swig. 

“It’s alright, love. We can’t all be right.” he grinned, and Bertie got really close to him, studying the fine details of his face that had been illuminated by harsh moonlight. 

“May I?” Bertie whispered, reaching up to touch Harold’s face, brushing his dark hair out of his face. Harold looked slightly confused, but otherwise amused, as if he had expected it. 

“Go ahead.” Harold breathed, and Bertie leaned in and kissed Harold. This kiss wasn’t as rushed, nor was it for other reasons. 

No, Bertie and Harold were kissing because they wanted to. 

And Bertie couldn’t have been more happy about it, because what Henry had said earlier was right. He had been terrified of just being another notch under Harold’s belt, another guy he’d kissed in some backwashed alley, and this kiss made Bertie believe that maybe, Harold wasn’t already ready to get over him. 

Maybe, just maybe, he lingered in Harold’s mind the way Harold lingered in his mind. 

More than the thought of Harold lingered in his mind, of course. The way he kissed him did, and the way he gently touched Bertie’s face as they pulled apart did. 

“Gosh, we only met yesterday. You act as if you’re ready to pull out a ring.” Harold teased. Bertie shuffled. He felt like he was Ted in How I Met Your Mother. 

"God, where'd you get such a cracking sense of humor from?"

Harold shrugged. "Multiple things. But I'm just naturally good at everything."

Bertie scoffed. "That's pretty obvious."

They spent the rest of the night talking, all sense of time and reality losing itself with every word that slipped out of Harold's mouth, and every flustered reply Bertie gave. 

Bertie thought he was delusional for catching feelings so early on, but he couldn't care less.


	4. the one where bertie woke up in harold's bed (with no recollection of how the fuck he ended up there)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bertie woke up after a long night of drinking and talking to harold with a splitting headache. he also forgot to realise he was in someone else's bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> amanda is tiny and angry

Bertie could feel nothing but his pulsing headache. He opened his eyes to soft light slipping through the door cracks. This wasn't too bad. He could probably sleep the horrid hangover he had off, and then he'd be alright. 

"Bertie? You up?"

"Yeah, I am!" 

Bertie paused for a moment. The person who called out to him had an unfamiliar voice that had sounded like Alfred's for a split second. Alfred's voice was not nearly as smooth or baritone. He hesitated, and then he got out of bed to see Harold in the kitchen, grinning and cooking some bacon. 

Holy _shit_.

"What am I doing here?"

Did they do something? Did something happen between the two of them, some not so small detail he'd forgotten?

"You didn't give me your address and your friends had left the party, so hey, here you are!" Harold announced, his tone far too chipper for it to be this early in the morning. "You're alright with that, aren't you? Your blazer's over in the foyer, if that's what you're wondering. It was pretty expensive-"

"No, no, that's not it! Did anything...did we...?" Bertie, for some odd reason, could not bring himself to say it out of fear that he had already moved too fast and ruined the beginnings of a good relationship.

"Nope. If that happened, I'm almost positive you'd remember _that."_

He went a bright shade of red and moved to go sit down on a stool. 

"Who knew that you actually liked to cook your own breakfast? With how famous you are, it wouldn't shock me if you had a dozen servants." Bertie said, staring at the film star. He mentally chided himself for not actually realising that Harold was a film star, seeing as he had the charisma and the charm of one.

"I don't believe in exploiting the lower classes. I do everything for myself." Harold said finally, dishing two plates of bacon and scrambled eggs and pushing one towards Bertie with a sweet sort of smile.

"Alright, comrade, whatever you say!" Bertie said, poking at his food. 

Harold turned to face him with a raised eyebrow and a pretty yet amused look on his face. "How'd you tell I was a communist?"

"The Marx books in your room. Oh, and the Angela Davis ones." Bertie pointed out. He laughed, and Bertie's heart did somersaults. He wondered how someone could look so perfect, even in the mornings.

"Fair, you win. Now, would you mind lending me your address? Just so this minor mishap doesn't occur again." he asked, and Bertie wrote it down and handed it to him. "And also because I might turn up in the middle of the night on your doorstep when it's raining, just to win your affections." he flourished dramatically, and Bertie laughed. 

Through his gasps of laughter, he said, "This isn't a Hallmark movie, Mukherjee."

"What if I want it to be one? You're ruining my fun, Wells," he pouted, and Bertie rolled his eyes affectionately. 

They ate in silent for the most part, apart from when Harold went to go change what vinyl was playing and he cursed every single time he got his finger stuck, which then caused Bertie to have to help him. Three times. 

"God, this is awfully domestic of us," Bertie scoffed. It was simply an off-handed comment, but Harold turned to face him. "Y'know, you making me breakfast, and- I'll stop talking."

Them he said, "I was about to ask you out on an official date."

"I haven't even known you for 72 hours, Mukherjee. Trying to marry me already?" Bertie teased, standing up. 

"You're the one that claims we're like a domestic couple! If anything _you're_ the one that wants to marry _me._ You look at me as if I'm your Christian god." he retorted, smiling wide. "Not that I particularly mind that, or that I'm not used to it."

"You're so cocky it's gross, Harold." Bertie rolled his eyes as a joke. 

"Aw, thank you, love." he said in mock honor. "Now, what'll it be? Date, or no date?"

Bertie thought hard for a second (jokingly, of course. Playing hard to get was a delicate art.) before going, "Date. But only because if you marry me I'll be richer." he joked.

The actor scoffed. "Mm, I bet Lana Del Rey would be proud. Using men for money was her brand for a long time."

Bertie nodded and put his hand on his heart. "It's almost like you know I own 7 versions of the _Norman fucking Rockwell_ vinyl."

Harold walked over to his vinyl collection. "I own 8." he winked. 

"Watch out, I might steal the 8th." he waggled his fingers at Harold, who stuck his tongue out at Bertie jokingly. 

"I'll drive you back to yours. After all, I'm pretty sure you'll at least need an hour to get ready. I'm picking you up at 6, by the way. Your friends are probably going to be worried sick."

Amanda was strict as a ruler about staying out. 

Bertie walked into the foyer and searched for his phone, which he turned on to see at least 700 messages to him. 

Henry had started with, _"BERTIE?? DUDE WHERE ARE YOU"_

Alfred sent, "have _you been axe murdered?"_

_"BERTIE WHEN YOU GET HOME YOU ARE SCREWED LMFAOOO AMANDA'S WORRIED SICK"_

There was a block of Portuguese in all caps, which Bertie was far too scared to put into Google Translate. He knew it was probably extremely rude. 

Harold stopped the car, and Bertie slightly dreaded going back home. 

"I'm pretty sure they're just worried. Don't sweat it. You can blame it on me, if you'd like. That'd probably make you feel better." he reasoned, and Bertie wanted to listen to him.

"It would, admittedly. But Amanda'll have my ass either way, so, see you at 6 if she hasn't killed me." he joked, doing an awkward pair of finger guns at Harold before he drove off. 

Bertie wasn't even in the house for 3 seconds when Amanda came bounding down the stairs, shouting, "Albert Thomas Mountfitchet-Wells, where on _earth_ have you been for the night? I was worried sick, God, you couldn't have even shot me a message to let me know you were okay? You fucking menace!" He smiled at her as she came into view. She had gone very red, and Henry and Alfred trailed after her. They were both holding back tears of laughter. 

Amanda Price could be terrifying sometimes. 

She shoved a chicken Caesar salad across the table. "Eat. That's your lunch. I'd like to know where you were. Were you with Stephe-"

"No. I was with Harold."

In hindsight, Bertie probably should've withheld that piece of information.

That seemed to have piqued Alfred's interest. "Did you guys sleep together?"

Bertie stared at him. "Absolutely not. I met him less than two days ago, Alf." 

He shrugged. 

Henry rolled her eyes. "Then what _did_ y'all do? Talk all night about your _feelings?"_

"Yes, actually. I passed out and he took me back to his since you guys left me."

"Don't even, Albert. I searched for you for half an hour." Amanda snapped.

They were on a full first name basis now, it seemed. 

He poked at his food again.

"I am sorry, Manda. But what was he supposed to do, go through my phone to find my address?"

Amanda murder glared him and he made an acute decision to stop talking.

"I, um, have a date. Just letting you know in case I'm out all night." Bertie said softly, and Alfred scoffed. 

"How you managed to get a date with a prestigious movie star who's worth more than 50 million pounds is beyond me, Wells." Alfred said, shaking his head slightly. Henry nodded in agreement. 

"Oh, are you two _jealous?"_ Bertie teased. Henry flipped him off and Alfred rolled his eyes cynically.

"What are you going to wear?"

"The first suit I can find in my closet that still fits me?" he checked his watch. The time was 17:12. 

Alfred glared at him. 

"The first suit you guys don't say I look ugly in?"

Alfred clicked his fingers. "Bingo." he gave Bertie a winning smile. 

The next half an hour was spent digging through Bertie's closet. Bertie chided his friends and reminded them that he only had 18 minutes left until Harold came to pick him up. Amanda conveniently reminded him that he was still on thin ice with her. 

When Harold swung around, he was driving a limousine. He grinned at Bertie. "I just had to impress you."

Bertie could swear his heart was about to cease its rhythm. 


End file.
